Lokir: A Horsethief's Lament
by dalank
Summary: Ever wonder how that grubby thief across from Ulfric in the game's opening sequence got to be there? Yeah... probably not. But luckily for you, Lokir's fate weighed heavy on my soul, and i decided to give him a bit of a backstory. Couple chapters, no biggie. Read it; you'll be happy you did.


Lokir: A Horsethief's Lament

Chapter 1

About the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Afternoon

There was a nip in the air when Lokir came around, an evening chill that puckered his pale skin and made the knot on his head throb. His face was ruddy with cold, rough with a week's worth of scratchy beard-growth.

The big Nord to his right - a handsome, rough sort; Ralof, he'd called himself - kept up his rambling commentary, touching on such diverse topics as the color of the boreal lights, the rights and responsibilities of all _true_ Nord's to rise up against the Imperial oppressors, and the many women he'd known from the deep cool forests of The Pale.

Lokir listened halfheartedly, by turns bored, disinterested, and sometimes angry. It was the political talk that got him fired up, especially with what looked to be the Kingslayer, Ulfric Stormcloak himself, seated across the wagon from him. The man was bound like the rest of them, but a moth-eaten scarf had been drawn tightly across his mouth. Ulfric did not - _could_ not - speak, but stared sullenly at the worn wood floor of the wagon.

The architect of Skyrim's contentious rebellion.

Next to Stormcloak sat another man, dressed in simple clothes and a decent pair of leather boots. This was the Breton Lokir had seen just before the Imperial soldiers descended on them, slender and fair. His straw-blonde hair was matted with sticky blood; he faded in and out of the now.

"What were you two doing down there, by the border?" Ralof asked. "You're a horse thief, eh? Well, I can't say as I respect that. Not at all, rea -"

"Shut up, prisoner!" an Imperial soldier walking alongside the wagon warned, tapping the wood side with his bow.

Lokir looked down at his own feet, his calloused toes pink with cold and wrapped in filthy rags. _What was he doing here? How did he come to be in this wagon with these insurgents?_

It was all Dengeir's fault, of course.

Fredas, the 7th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Evening

The Dead Man's Drink was smoky and hot, and Lokir was drunk.

Now, he didn't have the full-on, stumble-and-stagger meadweaves he'd sloshed himself into the night before; he couldn't afford that very often. Belly's full of that sweet Honningbrew stuff weren't cheap, and the pissant lay-abouts in Falkreath were pretty tightfisted when it came to handing out septims.

Not that Lokir had any qualms about taking coin. _Nocturnal helps he who helps himself__. _Right. And as he sat at a corner table, watching Delacourt caterwaul his way through another round of _Ragnar the Red_ and sipping a last warm flagon of the weak house slosh, he felt the familiar desperation coming on.

_What am I going to do?_ He thought. _I've got two coins __buried there __in my __foo__t__ wrap__._ _Hardly enough to buy a slab of broiled horker, and if I did, what would I eat tomorrow?_

Narri brushed a hip up against him as she swished the dirt around from one pile to another with a corn-husk broom. She fluttered her long lashes at him and pursed those sweet lips.

"Shor's bones!" she exclaimed, smiling sweetly. "A handsome man in Falkreath!"

This was her standard greeting - she used it to get better tips and Lokir had no doubt it worked. It was kind of an inside joke between the two of them, though; and it warmed Lokir to the cockles. Wherever they were.

"Something got you down, Lok?" she asked in a breathy tone, leaning on the broom. The nickname sounded so good coming from her, the mesmerizing way her mouth formed the word to sound like 'joke'.

Ah, Narri. She was the sultry Siren of Falkreath, approachable but unattainable. Lokir longed to brush the soot from her hair, to taste the woodsmoke on her lips, to bury his face in her -

"You two," came a voice from over Lokir's shoulder, "You two, cozied up here an' speakin' in whispers… Mind what you say, now. The Empire has ears all _over_ this town."

Narri smiled at the old man who came around Lokir's table. She cast another glance at Lokir and returned to her swift broomwork.

The old man followed Lokir's gaze, where it fell on Narri's shapely backside. He sighed.

"Were I a younger man," he said wistfully.

Lokir looked the older man over suspiciously. His mellow alethrum was in danger of retreating.

"What do you want, Dengeir?"

About the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Afternoon

"Hey, you."

That was Ralof talking. Lokir roused himself from his reverie.

"You're finally awake," the big Nord continued, "You were trying to cross the border, right? Heh. Well, you walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. You and that... thief over there."

Lokir looked up to see Ralof with his head cocked in his direction, talking to the prisoner to Stormcloak's left. The Breton.

The man only grunted in reply. He was in a bad way, to see him now with his head up: the Imperials had roughed him up pretty good, blackening an eye and splitting his lip. Lokir couldn't help but notice how comfortable his boots looked.

Lokir's gaze swept past the Breton to eye Ralof, suddenly angry with him and his holier-than-thou contempt for horse thievery.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he spat. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, you know that? The Empire is nice and lazy. If they hadn't been lookin' for you, I wager I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell by now."

Ralof shook his head, and Lokir noticed a redness rising in Stormcloak's cheeks. The Kingslayer's eyes narrowed.

Lokir pressed on, his own anger tempering his tongue. Reckless talk, wild.

"You there," he said, tipping his chin at the Breton, his voice rising an octave, "You and me - we shouldn't even be here, man! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants, by Dibella's girdle!"

"We're all brothers and sisters in bondage now, thief," Ralof soothed.

The Imperial soldier driving the wagon turned suddenly, a scowl on his face.

"By the Eight… shut up, damn it!" He said testily. "Don't make me come back there!"

Ralof let out a chuckle.

"Okay, alright. Don't get your crotchrags in a bunch, by Talos."

Before anyone could react to the open utterance of that blasphemous name, Lokir said, "And what's wrong with him, huh?" He thrust his chin at Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Watch your tongue, thief," Ralof said guardedly, "You're in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim. Show some respect."

"Ah! I knew it!" Lokir exclaimed. "Ulfric Stormcloak, yeah? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of this foolish rebellion..."

"Didn't I tell you to show some respect?" Ralof bellowed impotently.

"But if they've captured _you_..." Lokir went on, dawning horror crossing his face. "Oh, no. By the gods! Where are they taking us?"

Ralof chuckled again, leveling a dark, guarded gaze at the thief.

"I don't know where we're going," he said, smiling grimly, "But Sovngarde awaits."

Fredas, the 7th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Late Evening

"What do you want, Dengeir?" Lokir asked warily.

"May I sit?" the old man asked.

Lokir shrugged noncommittally, draining his cup and suddenly quite interested in Delacourt's lute-strumming. From the corner of his eye he could see old Dengeir looking him over, and it made him nervous.

What could he possibly want? Lokir didn't fancy getting caught up in the old man's paranoid ramblings and fantasies. With Dengeir it was always '_the Imperials are lining the noble's pockets_' or '_my nephew is a puppet to the emperor_'. Everyone in the Hold knew that Dengeir had willingly given up his title as Jarl and let Siddgeir take over.

The old man crooked a finger in the air to get Narri's attention, indicating a round for himself and Lokir.

"Lokir," the old man croaked, "That is your name, right?"

The young man nodded slightly. He was vaguely surprised Dengeir knew his name.

"You ain't got a whole lot goin' for you here, do you Lokir?"

Lokir's temper flared.

"Well," he said, his tone all acid. "Not everyone can be Jarl. And throw _that_ away."

Dengeir smiled and raised his hands in a warding-off gesture.

"I mean no disrespect, my boy," he replied with a chuckle. "What I'm saying is that these is lean times and there ain't much prospect in Falkreath. You're either a soldier, a farmer, or you gather roots and flowers for Zaria."

Lokir let out the breath he'd been holding. The tension left his body with it. Truthfully, he hadn't thought much about doing any of the things Dengeir mentioned. Something legitimate. Incidently, he _had_ done some errands for Zaria, collecting ingredients for her concoctions - but she paid in potions, not coin. Worse, she paid in the worthless potions: Cure Minor Crotch-Itch, for one, and a Love Potion that didn't work. Narri _still_ wouldn't let him unlace that bodice - he'd tried.

Dengeir went on.

"Are you loyal to Skyrim?"

Lokir looked over at the man, his features dark and craggy in the flickering heat of the fire pit. Dengeir's fine green coat and fur stole looked stately and tasteful, obviously tailored to fit and cut to accentuate the old man's stout features. He hadn't seen Dengeir's boots, but Lokir could imagine the sumptous wealth that encased the man's feet.

Narri stepped up to the table and deposited two tankards of mead. The smoky, chocolated aroma told Lokir it was the good stuff - Black Briar, if he was any judge, and the old man would've had to special order it.

"How do you mean?" Lokir brought the tankard to his nose and inhaled deeply.

"I _mean_: a true son of Skyrim won't stand for this unlawful occupation by the Emperor's soldiers."

Lokir took a long draught from his tankard, savoring the delicate flavor. How those honied hops danced on his tongue! He determined right then and there he'd take a trip to Riften someday and visit the meadery there; perhaps he'd take Narri with him. She was always going on about getting out of Falkreath.

If Dengeir had expected an answer, he didn't let on. When Lokir glanced up from his mead, the old man was gazing into the depths of his mug as well.

"Lod is in deep with the Imperials," Dengeir muttered. "Old Lod, my faithful servant - my housecarl! - even _he_ plots against me and our Hold."

Lod was the blacksmith in Falkreath, a hearty, amiable man that Lokir suspected couldn't plot to upset an apple cart, let alone turn the Hold over to the Empire. But he was a businessman and a citizen of the Empire, like they all were, and he had to make a living. It just so happened that Lod had a contract to supply arms for the Imperials; that was the way things were.

"I've got it on good authority that Lod is scouting the comings-and-goings of the Stormcloak forces here in Falkreath," Dengeir said in a low tone, "He's tallying numbers and getting them to General Tullius in Solitude, via a network of like-minded traitors throughout Skyrim."

This time it seemed that Dengeir awaited a response, so Lokir let out a 'hurrumph' and a 'hmmmm'. He levied a steady, pensive glare at the old man as if to say that he did not agree with Lod's machinations in the least. Leastways, Lokir figured, acting suitably outraged might earn him another slug of that fine Black Briar juice.

"Indeed," the old man said, rubbing his chin between a thumb and forefinger. He continued momentarily, "I can see that your loyalties lie with our cause, Lokir. And so I want to make a proposal..."


End file.
